“What is it?” said Arran.
“I know not,” said Conmager, shaking his head. “It is a spell of the white magic. But one of such great power. Even if I honed my skill for a thousand years I could never hope to cast such a spell. Even Alastarius would have been hard-pressed to use such a spell…”
The column vanished. A spark of white fire glimmered in the air. The spark brightened, widened, and became the spectral form of an old man wrapped in a battered green cloak.
Conmager dropped his cane, his mouth working.
“What?” said Allard, staring at the ghost. “What the hell is it?”
Conmager fell to one knee. “Master.”
“Master.” Arran looked at the ghost, at Conmager, and back at the ghost. “You mean…Alastarius? This is Alastarius?”
“Listen well to me,” said the spirit, its voice resonant and powerful. “I was Alastarius of Carlisan, Master of the White Council. I perished at Castle Bastion, slain at the hand of Goth-Mar-Dan.”
“Why have you come?” said Conmager.
Alastarius pointed at Ally, who stared at him with a terrified expression. “By her power I have been summoned to the mortal realm, for my powers passed to her on my death. She is my heir and successor.”
Conmager looked at her with new awe. “What would you have of me, Master? What is your will?”
The spirit smiled. “My old friend. Guard her and Lithon Scepteris. Train her in the ways of the white magic. Show her the way she must go, for her path shall be a hard one. Listen, for there is much I must tell…”
Ally trembled and topped to the ground.
The spirit vanished.
Arran hurried to her side and picked her up. He understood now, for the first time. He thought he had been looking for Alastarius.
But he had really been looking for her all along.
“Sir Arran,” said Conmager, climbing to his feet with a groan. Allard handed him his cane. “Put her in the van. Allard. Help me get the van out of that crater. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
###
Marugon shrieked. Hot needles of pain plunged into skull, piercing deep into his brain. The voices rose in insane screams of torment. Marugon growled and pressed his hands against his temples, willing away the pain, willing the voices to silence.
Goth stared at him. “Lord?”
Marugon saw a faint white light glimmering over the horizon. “The white magic. Someone has cast a spell of the white magic.”
Goth grabbed his headset. “Lord. My kin…they flee.”
“What?” said Marugon. A pair of winged demons soared past, flying as fast as their wings could carry them.
“It is as you have said,” said Goth. “The girl, Ally Wester. She cast a spell of the white magic. The changelings have fled. And my kin. They cannot stand against such power.”
“Then we shall have to kill them ourselves,” said Marugon, clenching his fists. “Faster! We must stop them. They cannot escape, not now.” Goth obeyed, pushing the van to its limits. “Where are they?”
“A few miles ahead.” Goth snarled. “My kin blew up a section of the road. Their van is trapped. We can catch them, if we move quickly.”
“Then drive!” Marugon closed his eyes and gathered his will, the black magic thundering in his skull, the voices urging him on. He would unleash the black magic on them in a storm of power and kill them all. He would not permit them to escape him again, not when he was so close to his goal.
“Lord.” Four of the black vans came into sight, their headlights on and engines idling. “We are here.”
Marugon threw open the door and strode out, muttering words of power, the raw power of entropy crackling around his fingertips. The asphalt crumbled to white dust beneath his steps. Goth walked at his side, black scimitar and machine pistol at the ready.
Marugon stopped and looked around. A six-foot wide trench had been blasted in the road. Bullet casings and chunks of broken asphalt littered the ground. The bodies of several changelings lay amongst the rubble, along with the bones of slain winged demons. Marugon searched the wreckage, trembling with fury.
He saw no sign of his enemies.
“No,” he said, snarling. “No!”
They had hidden under his nose for all these years, and when he had found them, they had eluded him once more.
“They have escaped,” said Goth.
“Damn them,” said Marugon, “damn them. The voices shrieked in time to his rage. “They cannot interfere now, not now! I am so close. They must not stop me!”
He spun and snarled a spell, releasing his rage and the black magic in a storm. A wall of swirling shadows fell over the abandoned vans. The shriek of twisting metal rose into the night. Rust blossomed over the vans, spreading like a flood. In a matter of seconds the vans had crumpled into heaps of brittle metal and crumbling rust.
“Let us go,” said Marugon. “There is nothing for us here.”
They had gotten away. For now.
But he would find them and kill them all.
And then the world would burn.
The voices in his head continued screaming.
All the worlds would burn.
Every last one of them.
THE END
Thank for your reading A WIZARD OF THE WHITE COUNCIL. Turn the page for a preview of the final book in the series, The Destroyer of Worlds. For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here, or watch for news on my Facebook page.
Bonus Chapter for THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS
“I don’t believe this,” said Senator (and Vice President-Elect) Thomas Wycliffe, staring at the TV. “I simply do not believe this.”
He paced in his office. President-Elect William Jones, Dr. Krastiny, and Vasily Kurkov sat in his guest chairs, watching the TV. Kurkov looked bored, Krastiny looked grim, and Jones had developed a nervous twitch. Wycliffe couldn’t blame him. He picked up the remote control and flipped to another channel.
A solemn-faced newscaster stared into the camera. “The city of Chicago remains on high alert tonight after a wave of armed violence unlike anything in the city’s history. Reports are mixed, but it appears a terrorist cell has gone on an armed rampage. At least thirty Chicago police officers have been killed, and reports of additional casualties are still coming in.” The newscaster paused for a moment and ruffled through his notes. “Looting has broken out in some districts, and the mayor has called for units of the National Guard to maintain order. Police are urging all citizens to remain calm and stay indoors…”
“Damn him,” said Wycliffe. He flipped the channel.
A pastor in a white robe with red vestments appeared on the screen. “Repent, for the end is at hand! The angels of darkness have been seen over our city. Armageddon is upon us. I urge all members of the flock…”
“Bullshit.” Wycliffe flipped the channel again.
The police chief stood at a podium, dozens of microphones pointed at his face. The word “LIVE” flashed over and over again at the bottom of the screen. “Forty-five officers have fallen in the line of duty, and nineteen more have been injured. We will not let this tragedy go unpunished. We will find these terrorists…”
Wycliffe bellowed and threw the remote away. “I cannot believe this. How could Marugon be so damned stupid?” He kicked the remote across the carpet in frustration. “And the day after Election Day, too. How could he have been so stupid?”
Report after report had flashed over the TV and the Internet. A house had been burned down in some sort of home invasion attack. Someone had destroyed a half-dozen police cruisers and killed a dozen officers. A running gun battle had been fought in the city, with credible sightings of Wycliffe's black vans. A group of black vans had annihilated a police blockade in the suburbs. The police believed a pair of rival terrorist organizations had run amok in Chicago.
At least Wycliffe had destroyed all proof that his company owned those black vans.
Even stranger r
eports had shown up on Twitter and Facebook. One man claimed to have seen a horde of gray-skinned Martians rampaging through his backyard. Others had seen winged monsters flying over the city, armored in black steel, complete with shaky videos from smartphone cameras. A TV reporter had interviewed a hysterical old woman who claimed to have seen Lucifer and his minions flying over Chicago, with eyes of fire and a black scimitars in their hands.
“God damn him,” said Wycliffe, pacing. “How could he have done this? Has he utterly lost his wits? And he didn’t even win!”
Kurkov grunted and lit a cigarette. “How do you know that?”
“The winged demons have been coming in all night,” said Wycliffe. He punched the power button on the TV, and the screen went dark. “Their armor is shredded. They bear wounds from bullet and spear and sword. Whatever happened out there, I think Marugon lost.” Wycliffe dropped back into his chair, shaking his head. “This is a disaster, an absolute disaster.”
“An understatement, I should say,” said Krastiny.
Wycliffe spat a stream of curses. “That idiot. That damned fool! The day after Election Day, of all days. They’re already calling it post-Election Day violence, like this is my fault. This sort of violence, in my own home city!” Wycliffe shook his head. “And the bomb. Marugon wants his precious nuclear bomb so damned badly. Chicago’s going to become a military camp in the next few weeks. They’re going to turn up every stone, look under every rock. There’ll probably even be a nation-wide manhunt for these ‘terrorists’. How are we going to get a nuclear bomb into the city then?”
Kurkov blew out a cloud of smoke. “It will be difficult, yes. Perhaps even impossible.” He smiled. “The fee will go up, most certainly.”
“This is your fault, Thomas,” said Jones, his voice quivering. “You did this to Chicago. You let those monsters…”
“Shut up!” said Wycliffe, the Voice snarling with command. Jones’s jaw clamped shut. “Go to your rooms and stay there until I call for you. I don’t have the patience to deal with your idiocy right now.” For a moment he considered shooting Jones and dumping his body in the street. Perhaps Wycliffe could use Marugon’s rampage to political advantage.
No, not yet. He did not need any more complications just now.
Jones rose and departed with a stiff-legged step.
The intercom buzzed, and Wycliffe slapped the button. “This had better be damn important.”
“Sir.” It was the gate guard. “Lord Marugon has returned.”
Click on this link to continue reading The Destroyer of Worlds.
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About the author
Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.
He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.
Visit his website at:
http://www.jonathanmoeller.com
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http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed
Contact him at:
[email protected]
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Table of Contents
Book description
Other books by the author
Chapter 1 - The Creature at the Window
Chapter 2 - The New World
Chapter 3 - Regent
Chapter 4 - A Demon In A Van
Chapter 5 - Stalkers
Chapter 6 - A Rescue
Chapter 7 - A Stranger With A Sword
Chapter 8 - Night Hunting
Chapter 9 - Subcontractors
Chapter 10 - Who I Really Am
Chapter 11 - Reunion
Chapter 12 - Kill Them All
Chapter 13 - A Birthday Dinner
Chapter 14 - Revelations
Chapter 15 - A Knight's Wrath
Chapter 16 - Find Alastarius On Earth
Bonus Chapter for THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS
Other books you might enjoy
About the author
Table of Contents
Book description
Other books by the author
Chapter 1 - The Creature at the Window
Chapter 2 - The New World
Chapter 3 - Regent
Chapter 4 - A Demon In A Van
Chapter 5 - Stalkers
Chapter 6 - A Rescue
Chapter 7 - A Stranger With A Sword
Chapter 8 - Night Hunting
Chapter 9 - Subcontractors
Chapter 10 - Who I Really Am
Chapter 11 - Reunion
Chapter 12 - Kill Them All
Chapter 13 - A Birthday Dinner
Chapter 14 - Revelations
Chapter 15 - A Knight's Wrath
Chapter 16 - Find Alastarius On Earth
Bonus Chapter for THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS
Other books you might enjoy
About the author
A Wizard of the White Council Page 23
